


It's The Great Equine, Jason Todd

by succeeding



Series: Batfamily Equine Adventures [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Equestrian, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Horses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/succeeding/pseuds/succeeding
Summary: Jason Todd's been at the Manor for six months now and things are going pretty good. Of course, Dickface Grayson comes around every once in a while, but Jason's able to ignore him easily enough. That all changes, though, when he gets in trouble at school, and Bruce agrees to an unorthodox punishment.OR: Bratty teen Jason experiences the abject horror of horsemanship, as taught by Dick.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: Batfamily Equine Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735747
Comments: 25
Kudos: 150





	It's The Great Equine, Jason Todd

Jason sat at his customary table in the dining hall of Gotham Academy. It was nearing Halloween, and the entire cafeteria-- sorry, _dining hall_ \-- had been decorated for the occasion. Like everything in this school, it looked graceful and expensive. There were several pumpkins the size of truck wheels occupying empty space, and a stack of straw bales had _somehow_ been arranged into the Gotham Academy logo. Each table had decorative centerpieces that featured those weird bumpy gourds. The school insisted it was decorated for “harvest time” and not Halloween, but everyone knew better. It would just look too tacky to have plastic spiders and fake cobwebs all over the place. 

The autumn sun came in through the large window he sat by, illuminating the flowers that went along with the gourds. They bloomed from a live plant whose plastic pot had been carefully hidden by a few bundles of dried corn cobs with multi-colored kernels. The garden store label peeked out just a bit, though, and Jason read the word “Orange Mum”, and then the price-- $9.99. There were probably fifty tables in the dining hall, which meant that they’d spent more than half a grand just on plants that would probably be thrown away after Halloween. That wasn't even accounting for the fact that most of the tables were larger than his and had at least two arrangements. Add to that the cost of the giant pumpkins, and the straw bales, and all the rest of it, and you were looking at some serious change. 

It was still weird to him, that this was his life now. It had been over six months since he’d tried jacking the wheels off the Batmobile, but sometimes he had moments where he blanked out and it was new all over again. Everyone and everything had become so civilized and _easy_. 

He’d been surprised the first time he’d talked back to Bruce, like _really_ talked back, and all the big man had done was calmly tell him to go to his room until Alfred called him down for dinner. That had been two hours, and Jason had spent the entire time playing _Plants vs. Zombies_ on the brand new laptop he’d been given. When Alfred had presented it to him, he’d emphasized that violent video games were _not_ permitted under any circumstances, but Jason figured that plants shooting frozen peas at zombies didn’t qualify as actual violence. 

But yeah, it had surprised him. More than surprised him, actually. Weirded him out. Was that… _it_? What did he have to do to earn a smack in this household? Not that he particularly wanted to get hit, because Bruce was _strong_ , but it was good to know where you stood on things. 

When he’d first come to live at the Manor, Bruce had given him a talk which was bizarrely reminiscent of how foster parents did their little speech whenever a new kid came into the house. (That happened often. This was Gotham, after all.)

“We have some ground rules here,” Bruce had said. He’d then elaborated, saying that Jason could feel safe here, no one was going to hit him, he could have all the food he wanted, yadda yadda yadda. Jason had just nodded along as if it actually meant something. 

But so far nothing had happened to make Bruce into a liar. Life was, well, if not _great_ , still the best it had ever been. Points got taken away because of the frequent visits from his ‘older brother’ Dickface Grayson, who was cheerful all the fucking time for no reason. When Dick came over, Bruce and Alfred perked up, and Jason hated him for it. What was so special about him, this golden boy, that people got happy when he came along? He was so _nice_ too, which made Jason feel kind of like an asshole for disliking him, but then, who bothered to be kind like that without getting something in return? Crazy people, that’s who. 

Ridiculous. 

Aside from Dick, though, he couldn’t complain. He’d been at Gotham Academy for a couple of months, since the start of the fall term, and it had gone a lot better than he’d thought it would. He wasn’t that far behind since Alfred had tutored him over the summer, and the teachers were nice to him, probably because Bruce was so rich he could have them fired in an instant. They all wore uniforms that had to be bought directly from the school, so no one got bullied for what they did or didn’t wear. Even the shoes were regulation, and they had to be polished and have their shoelaces done a certain way. Hair had to be neatly groomed and couldn’t be dyed non-natural colors. Jewelry wasn’t allowed, and neither was makeup. The teachers were _strict_ about it; the other day some popular girl had tried wearing lipstick and Ms. Shannon made her kiss a piece of paper in the middle of class to prove she had it on. 

In a weird way it reminded Jason of a Catholic school, but it wasn’t about religion or modesty or anything like that. According to Bruce, Gotham Academy had always been that way, even before the current principal, who said that fashion distracted from learning. Which it did, when you were wearing clothes from the dollar rack at the thrift store and the other kids made fun of you for it, so Jason didn’t mind the school’s rules about clothing and appearance. They were clear and easy to understand; he couldn’t get why some kids bitched and moaned about “freedom of expression”, or how a lot of the boys got demerits because they were too dumb to make sure their gig lines were straight. He never had problems sticking to it, and if he did forget something, Alfred reminded him before he left the house. 

The kids weren’t that bad, though, with a few exceptions. He picked up bits and pieces of conversations and most of them seemed to actually be worried about their grades, and what their parents would think, and whether taking Spanish instead of Chinese would affect their ability to get into whatever college. Not all of them were rich, either; Bruce funded a pretty generous scholarship program. There were still cliques, but the teachers kept them separate in group assignments and the seats in class were assigned alphabetically. 

He didn’t interact with anyone much, except for when he had to, and he tried not to get special attention from the teachers. Better to fly under the radar. He ate lunch alone, which was fine with him, because he actually _got_ lunch. The school had special chefs who, as stated by a leaflet meant for parents, made meals “according to the taste and nutritional needs of the modern child”. There were different menus for kids who were allergic or vegetarian or whatever, but everyone got the same thing otherwise, and no one was allowed to bring their lunch. The food wasn’t as good as Alfred’s, but it was still pretty tasty. 

When he’d been in public school, he’d received the free breakfast and lunch they gave to the poor kids. At first he’d been embarrassed; it was obvious if you got it free because the lunch ladies never charged the $1.50 or whatever the fuck it had been for a meal. But then, after Willis left and things became even tighter, he’d found that hunger got rid of embarrassment real quick.

Every so often Willis would hand Jason a $20 bill with the gruff instructions not to waste it, and Jason walked 5 blocks west to the grocery store. There were lots of bodegas closer, but they were expensive and didn’t keep stuff that would last, so he chose to make the trek. The store employees left him alone, even though he was a kid, and when he had the time he’d wander into the book aisle across from the birthday cards. They had all of the NYT bestsellers, and Jason took ten minutes here, twenty minutes there, to read before he did his actual shopping. He liked to read-- it made him feel less shitty about his own life. Technically his mom could have signed him up for a library card, but _that_ wasn’t going to happen, so instead the grocery store on 6th and Morris became his version of it. 

That all ended after a few months when a man doing the stocking stopped and asked him where he was from, and why he spent so much time in that aisle. He’d stuttered out a reply and fled. After that he only went for groceries and he turned his face away when he saw the man. 

But now he lived in a house, mansion, manor, what _ever_ the fuck you wanted to call it, and it had an entire room devoted just to books. It was like the libraries in the movies: huge floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a ladder that ran around on a track so you could reach the highest books, and big stuffed chairs that were so comfy you could spend hours there without realizing where the time had gone. He could go there whenever he wanted, and there were _interesting_ books too, not only the dry stuff he’d expected Bruce to read. 

The school also had a nice library, although filled more with educational books than anything else, and in English they got entire class periods where they discussed the book of the week. Here, reading and studying weren’t seen as anything strange. Some kids even did study groups during lunch, comparing notes and spreading their textbooks out on the bigger dining tables. After a couple of days, Jason had stolen their idea and began bringing a book along with him to lunch. 

So there he was, in the big dining hall of Gotham Academy, eating the lunch of the day and reading the third chapter of _The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter_ , when he spotted someone incoming: a kid named Thurston Howell _the Third._ He was very proud of that last part, and insisted the teachers include it when they did roll call. All Jason knew was that if your parents were pretentious enough to add _the Third_ after your name, you were probably a pretentious asshole too. 

He watched Thurston out of the corner of his eye as the kid came down the line of tables. Maybe he was headed somewhere else-- although the small table Jason always sat at was in the corner, and completely out of the way. And no one was supposed to get up at lunch at _all_ ; the teachers must have been distracted or he’d have been yelled at already. 

He came closer and closer, but Jason didn’t look up at him until he was within striking distance.

“Hi Jason,” said Thurston, taking a seat without asking. Fucking rude. “How are you today?” 

“Fine,” Jason said, switching his gaze to the window and the school grounds beyond it. Not meeting someone’s gaze was a good tactic for silently telling them to fuck off. 

Thurston leaned forward. 

“I saw in _Business Insider_ that Mr. Wayne is increasing his charitable donations to the East Gotham Rehabilitation Center. He says in the article that community change has to start from the bottom up, which is why he donates to local charities rather than national ones.” 

“I guess.” 

Jason didn’t know about Bruce’s business dealings, except for the fact that he was mega rich, and he didn’t care to know any more, either. Bruce always seemed stressed out when he got home, and when Jason saw him on TV doing interviews it was like watching a completely different person. 

“It’s really very kind of him,” Thurston continued, “to help the most disadvantaged in Gotham City. I’ve heard that some parts of the city are just _horrid_.” 

Oh, so that was where this prick was headed. Easy target-- everyone knew he was from the ghetto, even if they didn’t have the specifics. But it was fine. Lunchtime was almost over. He just had to put up with this for about five more minutes and then he was free. When he got home this afternoon he’d mention it, and then Bruce would call up the school and raise hell at the teachers for letting Thurston be a little shit. No biggie. 

“Aren’t you from what they call Crime Alley?” 

Jason looked back to Thurston. He was still leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table and one hand cupping his chin. His head tilted to one side like he was just asking an innocent question.

“Near there,” Jason said blandly.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been so difficult.”

Jason didn’t say anything. 

“But-- and stop me if I’m being intrusive-- I was wondering… what’s it like growing up around a bunch of prostitutes, felons, and drug addicts? I’m writing a paper on Gotham’s crime rate, so I’d love to hear insider details.” 

This fuckin kid. It was easy to tell when a person had never been punched in the face-- they did stuff like this, and then smirked as if they were totally untouchable. It was like the thought had never crossed their mind that someone might get tired of their shit and beat the fuck out of them. 

“What makes you think I’m an _insider_?” 

Okay, so maybe he’d helped Willis bag coke a few times, and maybe he’d shoplifted food on the regular, and maybe he _had_ stolen the wheels off the Batmobile. But Thurston here didn’t have any goddamn right to be asking. For all he knew, Jason came from a heartwarming but impoverished family like he was Tiny fuckin Tim. (Except he had the use of his legs. That part was kind of important-- can’t be boosting shit if you can’t also run away with it.)

“I pick up on those sorts of things,” Thurston said, sounding like he was creaming his pants in pride. “I'm known for being able to read people. You exude criminality. That’s why I want to interview you.” 

“Well, Sherlock,” Jason said, and this right here was him being a nice person, giving a warning and all, “I hate to break it to you, but if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m gonna make you.” 

“That’s no way to solve problems,” Thurston said. “I know there’s violence in the inner-city schools, but that’s not how we deal with things here. It’s okay, though; we can teach you what your parents didn’t have the decency to.” 

Jason looked around the dining hall again, real quick, just like he did when he was casing an area. The teachers were all at their table, and none were looking this way. Now was as good a time as any. 

“Well,” Jason said, standing up, “it was nice talking to you.”

Thurston glowered, but got up too. “Lunch isn’t over yet. You can’t just _leave_.” 

“I’m not,” Jason said. 

Then, before the brat could say anything in response, Jason got him in the face with a left cross. Dickhead fell back against the lunch table and the table arrangement went flying as his body pushed it out of the way. 

(What a shame. Those flowers _had_ been pretty.)

People who weren’t used to fights always blinked uncontrollably and splayed their hands in front of their face, which was stupid because it exposed their whole torso. Thurston did exactly that, and Jason took the opportunity.

A nice punch right beneath the sternum and he tumbled onto his back on the floor. Rule number fucking one: don’t let them get you on the ground unless you’re John Cena. 

Jason didn’t bother following him down there. He just pulled back his leg for a kick and planted his toes straight in his abdomen. Kicking with the toes was a bad idea if you did it too hard, but this was practically a love nudge. 

He didn’t even need to use any of the skills he’d learned as Robin, not that he’d have dared to anyway. Life in Crime Alley was a crash course in street fighting; you might not look snazzy while doing it, but you sure learned to take a hit and give one, too. Hell, if _anything_ he was pulling his punches. He didn’t want to kill the kid, or even badly injure him, and serious bare-knuckle fighting could do exactly that. He’d seen it before: two crackheads duking it out on the sidewalk, one got in a straight headshot, the other dropped dead instantly.

Out of his peripheral vision he saw a brigade of teachers rushing up. Well, they’d responded quickly. It had taken ten seconds, fifteen tops, and the kid was finished. Just absolutely done.

He stood there, watching Thurston try desperately to gasp for air, and said, “You’re really pathetic.” 

Then the teachers were there and somebody was talking to him. Thank _god_ they didn’t try grabbing him. Mr. Hart was helping Fuckface up off the ground, and the voice in his ear got clearer and clearer until he realized it was Ms. Shannon speaking. 

“Come on, Jason,” she said, and she didn’t even sound mad. “Let’s go.”

He followed her out of the dining hall, intensely aware that each and every kid was staring at him.

So much for flying under the radar. 

* * *

Bruce came to the school and sat with him through the post-altercation “coaching session” the school required after fights, whether verbal or physical. Each party sat and told their side of the story without interruption, the teachers asked questions and clarified, the parents weighed in, and they all agreed on a solution from the school’s guidebook. It was like going to court, except a lot more gentle and without the threat of being sent to prison. 

The teachers had talked to some of the kids sitting nearest to Jason when everything went down, and apparently they’d confirmed that Thurston had indeed been a provoking little asshole. It made Jason feel better, that the teachers hadn’t taken Thurston’s side automatically, and it was a good kind of weird that kids he didn’t even know had bothered to speak up for him. 

The kid’s mom had been a slimy bitch, just like her son. She didn’t cuss, or say anything overtly rude, but the implications that slithered around in her words made Jason’s chest tighten with indignation. She’d asked the teachers to have ‘sympathy’ for her son, who didn’t understand the plight of the downtrodden.

Jason hadn’t responded so well to that. Bruce, in the chair beside him, had taken it in stride and cut him off before he could say anything _too_ nasty, although from the mom’s expression she’d never heard anything so vulgar in her entire life. 

All in all, the ‘sentence’ ended up being suspension from school for a week, for both parties. Bruce and Jason signed one copy of a document summarizing the meeting, and Thurston _The Third_ and his mom signed the other. 

After that, they left in Bruce’s Audi and headed towards home. Bruce didn’t seem too mad-- he was driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearstick. He’d loosened his tie when they’d gotten into the car, and he was rocking a rad pair of sunglasses. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason offered as he buckled up his seatbelt. In his experience, apologies took the edge off the punishment to come. “I really am. I didn’t mean for you to have to leave work.” 

Bruce turned on his blinker and they merged onto the highway. This time in the afternoon, there wasn’t too much traffic, which was good. It meant less awkward time spent together in the car, and a lower likelihood that Bruce would freak out before they even got home. 

“These things happen,” he said. “I can’t say that I never got into a fight when I was in school.”

“ _Really_?” Jason blurted. 

“Oh yeah,” Bruce said, as calmly as if he were describing the weather. “Alfred would scold me and tell me that I wasn’t properly representing the Wayne family. I always told him that it didn’t matter if I was the only one left.” 

Jason tried to picture a rebellious teenage Bruce who gave Alfred flak and punched kids who talked smack. It was pretty hard to do. 

“So,” Jason said, “what’s my punishment at home going to be?” 

He already knew the answer, and he wasn’t nervous. He _wasn’t_. This had happened before and it would happen again. Same song, different cover band. It was one thing to talk back at home, but behaving like that at school, and causing Bruce to waste his time in a stupid meeting? That was a whole other level of offense-- the difference between a petty misdemeanor and a capital felony. 

“... I don’t know,” Bruce said after a while. “I’ve never had to come up with one for a situation like this.” 

Of course. Dick had been _perfect_ , after all. He’d probably never so much as gotten a demerit at school. But then again, how hard was it to ‘come up’ with a punishment when it was obvious said punishment would be a beating?

Maybe he was using some kind of reverse psychology to put Jason at ease. 

The car in front of them slammed on their brakes as another car crossed three lanes of traffic in one risky move. Bruce downshifted the engine smoothly and soon they picked up speed again. 

They rode the rest of the way in silence, because Jason didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he could just tell Bruce he knew what was going to happen. That would be asking for trouble. 

The ‘driveway’ to the Manor actually started off a side road. It had a gate at the entrance that somehow knew to open when any of the household cars drove up. The driveway was long as hell, curving for a good couple of miles through the woods Bruce owned before they got closer to the Manor itself. It was plenty of time to contemplate what awaited him, and as they went through the second gate, which also opened automatically, the big house on the hill came into view. 

Both sides of the driveway were lined by thick stone walls, which kept in the horses, or “the herd” as Alfred liked to call them. Bruce and Dick each had their own, and for some reason they still kept Dick’s old pony around instead of turning it into shoe leather. Selina kept her horse here too, which he figured was mostly an excuse for her to come over to hang out with Bruce. They went riding together whenever they weren’t in a spat.

Jason looked at the horses as they drove up, and realized one was missing-- the brown one with black legs. That was Dick’s horse, which meant only one thing.

Dickface was here, off riding somewhere. 

That soured Jason’s mood even more than the prospect of being beaten by Bruce for the first time. Whenever Dick came over, he always stayed for at least one meal and sometimes even spent the night. Bruce went gaga over him, acting like he hadn’t seen Dick in ten years, and sometimes Jason felt so ignored he’d say something rude just to get their attention. 

He didn’t think he’d try to get any more attention today, though.

They parked and Jason got his book bag out of the backseat. It was heavy, weighed down by all the things he’d need for a week away from school. They entered through the side door of the house, and Bruce turned to him.

““You can go on upstairs,” he said. “I’ll call you down before dinner.”

That was about three hours away. Good. More time to play _Plants Vs. Zombies_. The later levels got really hard, and he’d found himself having to repeat a lot because his plants kept getting eaten. The difficulty would distract him from what was to come.

* * *

Jason had never had a problem staying in his room when Bruce sent him up there. There was plenty to do, and he had snacks and water and access to a bathroom, so it wasn’t as if he were going through terrible deprivation. 

There was, however, a problem _today_. He’d never been banished to his room when Dickface was around. Jason could picture him cackling in joy when he found out Jason was in trouble. He’d get all the time with Bruce he wanted, all the while knowing that _he_ was the better son. 

So when he heard Dick come into the house and sit down in the living room with Bruce, he couldn’t help himself. He really couldn’t. He _had_ to know what they were talking about, and what Dick would say when Bruce told him about what he’d done today. 

He crept out of his bedroom, opening the door as silently as he could. He left it open so that he could beat a hasty retreat if needed. Then he walked close to the wall, avoiding the floorboards that creaked, and eventually came to the top of the staircase downward. This close, he could hear pretty much everything that happened in the living room. 

They had been talking for a couple of minutes before he’d hatched his plan, but it was typical boring stuff. How was your day, how did your ride go, it’s beautiful outside, blah blah blah. He listened in, wondering if they’d ever get to the good stuff, and his wish finally paid off.

“Did Jason have an early day at school?” Dickface said. “I thought I saw him with you coming up the driveway.” 

… What? Where had he been? Jason hadn’t seen him. 

“He’s in his room,” Bruce said. “No early release. He got into a fight.”

There was a rustling noise, and Jason knew it was the sound of Bruce pulling out the “coaching” form from his briefcase. The only reason he’d be doing that was to hand it to Dickface to read. Great. 

There were a couple moments of quiet, and then the sound of the paperwork being put back where it came from. 

“Sounds like he had a reason,” Dick said eventually. Jason felt a stab of irritation. Why would he pretend to take Jason’s side? 

“God,” Bruce sighed, “you were never like this. You were always so… good.”

“I also came from a much different background.” 

Wasn’t that the truth. 

“He told the kid’s mom, verbatim, ‘If you want my sympathy, you’ll find it in the dictionary between _shit_ and _syphilis_.’”

“Oof,” said Dick. “That’s a new one.” 

Despite himself, Jason felt flattered.

“New one or not, it’s not behavior that conforms to Gotham Academy’s code of conduct.”

“What are they going to do, cry about it? You basically own that school.”

“It doesn’t set a good example,” Bruce said. “He has to have some kind of punishment.” 

Ah, finally. The discussion of the assbeating to come. He wondered whether Bruce would hit him while wearing his Batman rig, or just regular clothes. 

“Bruce, I mean this in the kindest way possible, but you are literally the worst person ever to come up with a suitable ‘punishment’ for a kid like Jason.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve re-consulted all the parenting books in the library, and--”

Parenting books? On how to beat kids? Damn, he needed to go to the library more and read about all the newfangled methods of punishment; then he could be prepared for what Bruce might do in the future. Slaps were classic and didn’t leave marks. Punches ran the risk of bruising but also really knocked in the message that you were a worthless piece of shit. Kicks-- gotta be careful with those, you might break some bones, and then you’ve got to lie to the bored social worker lady who signs off on you because both your arms are still attached. 

But hell, Bruce had to know all this already. He was Batman, an expert in multiple martial arts. Karate probably had its own special technique for punishing kids: beat on, beat off. 

“One time when I was ten I ran away from the academy in the middle of the day to go hunt salamanders in the creek. You remember that?”

“Of course,” said Bruce. “The staff were frantic. They thought you’d been kidnapped.” 

“You also remember that I got suspended for two weeks because of it?”

“Yes, and?” 

“Your punishment was for me to write a five-page essay each day about salamanders.” 

Jason couldn’t help but snicker. He buried it into his hand and hoped that he hadn’t been heard. Salamanders? The creek lizard things? _Really_? 

“And you are still our resident salamander expert,” Bruce said with self-satisfaction. “I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is that writing an essay doesn’t work when the problem is interpersonal. You can’t introspect your way out of someone else being a jerk.” 

His amusement died down. That was right-- Dick had gotten the punishment the good kids got: write an essay and say you’re sorry. He hadn’t hurt anyone or damaged anything, whereas Jason had. And Dick probably thought he was sounding so good, being compassionate to the troubled newcomer, but Jason knew better than to trust it. 

“He can reflect on the occurrence and use it as an opportunity to learn to control himself.”

“He’s barely _thirteen_ , Bruce, and it’s not like he’s running around attacking everyone he sees. Instead of making him focus on what he did ‘wrong’, you need to give him an outlet.” 

Bruce was quiet for a while, and then said, “When did you become so good with grumpy teens?” 

“If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been leading a team of them for a couple of years now.”

“Right,” Bruce said. “You have. For two years.” He sounded dazed.

God, couldn’t they just get to the point? Dick should say he deserved 20 lashes with the belt, and then Bruce would say 15 instead, and then they’d settle on 17 and Bruce could finally come get it over with before dinner. 

“I have some spare time in the next few weeks,” Dick said. “At least, barring any major catastrophes. And the horses’ exerciser is sick.” 

Jason blinked at the complete non sequitur. What, Dick was saying he’d come over even more often to ride? Didn’t he do it enough already? And shouldn’t he really be spending all that free time with his _team_? The one he led in a different city, far away? 

“Do you think he’ll listen to you?” Bruce said. “He doesn’t seem to like you much.”

Well, Bruce wasn’t the world’s greatest detective for nothing. But what was that about Jason _listening_? To what, the caterwauling Dick did when he showered? 

“He doesn’t have to listen to me,” Dick said. “He just has to listen to the horse. That’s what’s so perfect about horseback riding. Other people don’t really matter.” 

Oh fuck. 

Was this going where he thought it was? It couldn’t be. Bruce wasn’t cruel enough to agree. Jason would rather get beaten for an hour straight than have _this_ as his punishment. He felt his hopes soar when Bruce began to speak.

Then they plummeted to the ground as Bruce said, “Okay, teach him how to ride.” 

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few references here-- the title is appropriated from the movie 'It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown', and the "sympathy" statement Bruce refers to is from the movie 'Major Payne'. "Beat on, beat off" is a reference to "Wax on, wax off" from 'The Karate Kid'. John Cena is a pro wrestler. Thurston Howell III is the name of a rich man from the 1960s series 'Gilligan's Island'. 
> 
> I know nothing really 'equine' happens in this chapter, but I hope you all enjoyed Jason's internal ramblings.


End file.
